First Impressions
by whateveryouwannacallmebby
Summary: Sherlock had always been raised to know that first impressions were the most vital. He had never cared about such trivial human things. Until one night, when he sits up late, playing his violin, and replaying his past.


Musical tones filled the living room of one 221B Baker Street; a soft, melodious sound that seemed merry and yet melancholy at the same time. Upstairs, light snoring accompanied the violin, the occasional grunt of comfort breaking through at predictable intervals. Sherlock smiled a bit to himself, writing notes down on a spare bit of paper he pulled from the rather impressive stack beside his laptop. It was always easy to predict John's sleeping patterns, based on his diet of the day and whether or not he had gone out with Stamford or a pint or two. This night, incidentally, had been one of his 'out' nights –John had lots of 'out' nights lately-, resulting in a semi-peaceful sleep, almost-unplagued by nightmares. It was one of Sherlock's more…useful casual deductions, and one of the few he prided himself with, to notice these things about John. Then again, Sherlock had always seemed to be able to notice things about John, even before he had 'technically' met him. It was a memory Sherlock liked to save for nights like this, nights that were calm and soothing, regardless of the danger around the corner at any given second. Nights that Sherlock would give anything to have again.

* * *

The first time Sherlock Holmes laid eye on John Watson was, contrarily, not at Saint Bartholomew's Hospital on the Twenty-Ninth of January. Instead, a few weeks before Stamford 'introduced' them, as one might say, Sherlock had been dragged out of his temporary living arrangements and into the clutches of the devious Mrs. Hudson. She had treated him to a home-made lunch, something Sherlock was certainly open to, though unnecessary for the landlady's proposition.

"I heard from Mrs. Turner down the street, Sherlock. Awful situation you've dug yourself into this time." she poured him a cup of tea, a sorrowful look in her eyes.

"Yes, though certainly nothing I cannot handle." Sherlock gave her a small smile. "Mycroft still sends me allowance to get my way by."

"But flat after flat, dear? It's no way for a boy such as you to go about. Tell you what," Mrs. Hudson stood from the table, taking the dirty dishes to the sink. "I've a flat upstairs, cozy little place, if you'd like. I'd be willing to rent it to you for a modest fare, given what you've done for me. Say, £575 per week? Of course, a flat-share would be acceptable, if you need to. There's a second bedroom just up the stairs. Heaven knows Mycroft can be stingy with your allowances." Sherlock stood after her, carrying his own dishes over and taking up a dish towel to help out.

"But flat-mates are boring." He protested, huffing like a child.

"Nonsense, Sherlock! You'll have a proper place to work on your cases, won't you? And, by the Queen, you need some looking after."

Sherlock smirked and pulled his coat on, starting for the door. A part of him couldn't be happier that he had met Mrs. Hudson in a town house on the outskirts of Scotland, since she had practically been everything his own mother hadn't, regardless of the countless nannies she had hired. Another part of him felt as though she were suffocating him, but it was a comforting suffocation. The kind that made Sherlock feel guilty when he knew he had done wrong. He was glad he took her case those years ago, and that she had pushed him to better himself.

"You know I cannot be held responsible for when I get bored?" He stepped outside, giving Mrs. Hudson a warm, one-armed hug.

"Oh hush, now. You'll be keeping up, or I won't be getting those biscuits you like." She chided him, teasingly slapping his arm. "Now run off. Find that flat-mate, and remember to call that Lestrade fellow. He's been looking so run-down on the telly lately."

* * *

Sherlock stood at the corner of Brick Lane and Chicksand Street, having just left the Sweet & Spicy restaurant. Keith, the brother of a recently deceased man, frequented the place, and Sherlock had apparently missed him. He started down the road, thinking over the case again. A perceivably iron cast alibi Keith Downing, whose sister-in-law had reason to suspect he had caused the supposed accident his brother, Jack Downing, had been in. Certainly enough motive, with a house on the line that had been given to Jack instead of Keith at their father Harry's passing. Everyone involved believed it to be an accidental drowning, seeing as how Jack couldn't swim and his body had been found in a small pond on the heirloom property. It had been the late Jack's wife, Jane, which had come to Sherlock for help, convinced the accident was clearly anything but.

He passed quietly through the streets, deciding to go back the next day with the hopes of running into Keith again. Surely there was no such thing as an iron cast alibi, and he had to of made a mistake somewhere. Oh, what Sherlock wouldn't do for just one hit right now…

Sherlock blinked, taking a step or two back as he was jostled on the street side. A group of ex-rugby players, judging from their size and their fascia and femoris strength, laughed between themselves. The stench around them suggested not a small amount of pints had been drunk. Crude jokes were all but yelled back and forth, only adding to the attention they were drawing.

One of the men stopped, though, and- Oh? The others had gone quiet. Sherlock raised a brow, leaning against the wall of a pub –he couldn't make out the name- and listened to the somewhat shorter man in the group.

"Now you lot listen to me. I don't care that you're all a bunch of arses, that have had one too many, but you say one wrong thing about the Lions, and I'll deck you in the street!" Strange, Sherlock thought, as the other men began laughing again. It was quite obviously a threat the man had said, and yet he did so with a smile. A smile that, even in the dull light of the sun setting, conveyed trust, joy and passion, though it could have been the alcohol.

The group of men began tussling down the street again, the one that had spoken out following at a slightly slower pace. Ah, there, a limp. Noticeable, but not distracting, to everyone, including the afflicted man. An old wound, perhaps? Maybe a-

His phone rang, and Sherlock pushed off of the pub wall, removing his phone from his pocket and placing it up to his ear.

"Mrs. Downing, perfect timing. I'm going to need to search your grounds."

* * *

Four days later, Sherlock examined bits of gravel he had found on the path at Mrs. Downing's home. Seemingly normal, save for small traces of green coloring in two different areas of the walk-way. He drew up two solutions, one for organic and the other for inorganic compounds, placing small drops on different sections of the gravel. As he compared the two, the door to the lab opened. Mike Stamford, a specialist teacher at Bart's, walked in, his tie momentarily putting Sherlock off. His eyes slid over, acknowledging the other man before returning to his work. A man with a limp.  
"Bit different from my day," the man said, directed to Mike.

"Oh, you've no idea."

"Mike, can I borrow your phone? There's no signal on mine." Sherlock interrupted, not looking up.

"And what's wrong with the land line?" Mike asked him, toying with a specimen on the table.

"I prefer to text."

"Sorry, it's in my coat," the teacher shrugged, replacing the specimen to the table.

"Uh, here. Use mine." Sherlock looked over, slightly taken aback. This new man, the one Mike had brought in, reached into his pocket, producing a mobile phone.

"Oh…thank you." Sherlock said, standing from the stool he had been sitting on and walking toward the man with the outstretched phone.

"It's an old friend of mine. John Watson." Sherlock took the offered phone, flipping it open and sending a text to the inspector on Mrs. Downing's case.

_John Watson._

"Afghanistan or Iraq?"

* * *

It was nearly morning now, and Sherlock placed his violin back into its case, discreetly sliding it back into the hiding place John had found for it. Upstairs, there was a creek on the floorboards. A sign that John had already waken for the day. Sherlock paused for a moment, judging the weight in John's steps as he crossed the room. Not Good, though he'd already known. John's footsteps stopped above him, and the pressure on the floorboards changed again. He had picked up his cane.

Sherlock looked between the upstairs and the door before quietly making his way into the kitchen, just as John reached the bottom of the stairs. Forty-five seconds, all the time Sherlock would need as John entered the bathroom, his cane sounding ominous on the wood floor. He pulled his coat on over his shoulders, and lazily wrapped his scarf –a new one, though nearly exact in color- around his neck, and opened the door from the kitchen to the landing. He carefully measured his steps, stopping an inch short of the third panel and putting more pressure on his right foot as to avoid the creek of the doorstop, and pulled the landing door shut quietly behind him. Downstairs, he could hear Mrs. Hudson, scampering around, making tea with jam and biscuits to bring up to John for breakfast.

Quietly, he made his way down the two flights of stairs to the first level of 221B Baker Street, folding himself into the coat closet in the home's walkway. Seven seconds later, Mrs. Hudson's light steps were heard on the stairs. He waited, in addition to the initial fifty-one seconds, until he heard John's voice greeting the landlady, and slipped from the closet, starting for the door outside. It was too early in the morning for him to be identified properly and so, he felt comfortable walking out of his old flat.

"Did you sleep well, dear? I know it must be a bit lonely, with the place so quiet and all." Mrs. Hudson's voice floated down the stairs, and Sherlock fought with himself to dash up, pronounce he was home, and treat himself to a cup of proper tea. His hand fell on the door knob.

"Slept alright, I suppose." John's voice. Sherlock pulled open the door. "Could have sworn, though…could have sworn I heard composing."

Sherlock closed the door behind him, head down and hands in his pockets. His phone vibrated, and Sherlock looked at the message quickly. Mycroft, sticking his absurdly large nose in too deep.

_**Too early, dear brother. Wouldn't want him shot, would you?**_


End file.
